Fragments: Season of the She Wolf Outtakes
by Vivienne67
Summary: Outtakes from the original fanfiction "Season of the She Wolf."
1. Chapter 1

**_A/N: _**_Doing something a little different this week. Instead of Chapter 18, I'm posting this outtake, written for my 200th reviewer, the talented and kind BellaEdwardLover1991. In honor of her helping me make the double-century mark with reviews, I offered to write an outtake based on her ideas. She (like many of us) wanted a peep inside Nahuel's head, but rather than settling for one scene, she challenged me to write a series of vignettes that would reflect some of the changes Nahuel has gone through, especially in the early chapters of the story._

_If you don't recall the earlier chapters very well, it may be a good idea to go back and reread chapters 3, 5 and 6 before reading this outtake. As always, thanks to my betas evelyn-shaye and MunkeeRajah. _

_Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight._

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><p><strong>Fragments: A Season of the She Wolf Outtake<strong>

"_**Huilen is dead."**_

The words hang, thick and cloying, corrupting the peace in this too-bright, too-perfect room. They seep into the ragged wound of his awareness. Agitate the chaos and despair inside his head.

Between the last syllable and the next beat of his heart, he is ripped away from the calm and comfort of now. Hurled into the horror of what he thought he escaped.

Fear claws at him, dragging darkness over his eyes. The sane, calm reality of muted tones and concerned eyes fade into black bedlam. His nostrils flood with the stench of his own terror. For the first time, he recognizes the reek: it is the sickeningly sweet pungency of burning vampire flesh.

A calm, kind voice brushes the darkness aside: the doctor. He can't tell how much time has passed or what the doctor is saying. Like yards of spider silk, minutes and hours are now gossamer and ungraspable. Fragments of information make no sense until he has turned them over repeatedly in his shattered mind. Twice, thrice, sometimes four times.

He has trouble distinguishing the horrors he's actually experienced from those his sundered mind has conjured.

His throat is still raw from screaming. The wound in his soul still bleeds from her absence. The bruises and lacerations on his body still weep with pain. And the pain, ah yes, that assures him that everything _is_ real. At least he can be grateful that he is not completely insane.

He hopes he is sane enough to do and say what he must. He's _never_ been enough before. Not fully human, not fully vampire. Not human enough to be anything other than a monster. Not monstrous enough to be a vampire free of the weight of his conscience. He is both things, but not enough of either to entitle him to stand fully in either world.

Certainly, not enough to save her.

He is forcing the words out now. Grinding them out through fissures rapidly widening in the slipshod wall he has constructed around his mind. These rifts have been his enemy for days, threatening to let his fragile sanity leak away into nothingness. Now, he needs them. They are the only way he can convey what he must to these would-be protectors.

They listen, cautious but unafraid, these most unimaginable of creatures: vampires that do not feed on humans. For a century and a half, even longer, he had no dream that such a thing was possible. Yet among their number, these inconceivable anomalies now count four that have never taken a human life.

Including the other halfling. His eyes settle on her. For six years, he's drawn comfort from the idea that there was another like him who was not of his blood. One with whom he might share more than similar circumstances of birth. But now he sees her for the unattainable ideal that she is: perfect and peaceful and _whole_.

And the other, her mate (for it is obvious, even to him) … his eyes find the shape-shifter and quickly slide away. Like these luminous vampires he, too, is perfect. He radiates power and goodness.

Self-loathing suffocates him. It is blasphemy that he should pollute the air of this hallowed place with his fetid exhalations. He dreads each breath, certain the festering putridity inside him will pour out and poison these perfect creatures. Surely, he must disgust them. He disgusts himself.

While he was running, fleeing the horror, he told himself that he intended only to warn them of the danger. Now, cocooned in their purity and power, he knows it is a lie. Fear, not altruism, has driven him here. He came here not to save them, but to save himself.

"He destroyed her in front of me, and I could do nothing to save her."

And suddenly arms are around him. It is not the same—how could it be—as being in _Huilen's_ arms, but it is still comforting. The kind one's mate, the mother, is beside him. Her eyes mirror his agony. He shudders at the burden of her sympathy, ruing the weight of it. But wondrously, her kindness eases, rather than amplifies, the misery.

The fear is cold and sharp, but her eyes strike a single spark of heat and determination. He _will_ finish this. He _will_ tell them what they must know to protect this transcendent reality they have created. If they choose to turn him away, so be it. It would be no less than he deserves.

He opens the vein of his shame: he has betrayed them. To save his life, Huilen has betrayed them. The arms of the mother tighten. Kindness and compassion, empathy and pity radiate from each of the unimaginable creatures in the room.

The mind-reader is speaking now. How had he forgotten this other creator? This one that is both like his sire, and not. A creator by chance, not design. No, not just a creator. Not a sire. A _father_. His eyes find the girl again, the one who shares his genetic formula but who is nothing at all like him. Of course the mind-reader would love her. She is his perfect progeny. She is flawless, serene, beautiful.

He has always been inadequate.

Bile rises in his throat, along with the self-loathing of a lifetime. He realizes he must finish this before his fear and hatred choke him from the inside out. He gasps out his warning.

He knows his presence here will now bring his sire down upon them. They must be prepared. They must know what they face. They must know he is responsible for bringing this fetid blight into their transcendent existence.

He watches them struggle to comprehend the depth of his betrayal. In a moment, they will understand and they will cast him out. Defenseless. Broken. Lost. Deserving of the death he is sure his sire will deal him.

He will welcome the end of the pain.

Suddenly, light and heat and roaring sound flood the room. The haze of horror around his mind is pierced, shredded, flayed away by shock at this intrusion.

A human woman stands in the door.

At least, he _thinks_ she's human. He has never seen a human woman that looked like this one. She is tall and long-limbed. Dark hair falls just below her strong jaw. A pink undertone to her coppery complexion reassures him his guess is correct: she _is_ human.

Her eyes are what give him doubt. They snare him as surely as any shackles his father used. They are a rich, lustrous black, but not the cold, flat black of obsidian. This is a fire-filled, bottomless black. They draw him in like a star-filled night sky. He falls into her endless eyes.

She is speaking.

She is angry.

No, she is _furious_.

Confused again, his mind casts about for the source of her fury. She is shouting. Again, he feels something other than fear and anguish: surprise. She is shouting at _him_. She is angry at _him_.

"So you came running _here_? You've exposed Jacob and Renesmee, the Cullens, our pack—_all_ of us—to this psycho! You lousy _coward_ …"

His overwhelming emotions have been slowly strangling him. He is used to being in control of himself. His inability to break the fetters of fear and despair has fueled his mind's descent into chaos. Each confusing, frightening emotion has been another garrote around his neck, constricting tighter the more he tries to struggle free.

A dark fantasy materializes before his eyes: she grasps each pain-soaked filament emerging from the miasma of his soul, wraps the rotting mass around her strong wrist and forearm, and slowly begins to twist. With each rotation, the filaments writhe together and fuse, forming an unbreakable cable.

For the first time since Huilen's murder, his head clears. The background noise of his internal cacophony drops away. Heat blazes through his limbs, outward from the ice that has massed in his core. All his confused, indefinable, uncontrollable feelings coalesce into a single pure and focused emotion.

_Rage._

SSW/SSW/SSW

"_**When Joham shows up here, he'll be in for a majorly nasty surprise."**_

For hours, his head has been silent. The numbness is a blissful relief from the tumult of his disarrayed emotions.

Now, the young shape-shifter's words shred his cocoon of detachment. A piercing shriek shrills into life inside his head. If it would do any good, he would cover his ears against it. As it is, he can only clench his teeth to keep the horrible sound from slipping out between his lips.

His eyes dart around the room, looking for the horror he is certain must accompany that name. He is sure that merely speaking it is enough to invoke the appearance of his sire in the cold, dead flesh.

Belatedly, he realizes he has not found a safe haven here. He has _destroyed_ the safety and tranquility of this place merely by stepping over the threshold.

His eyes scan the room again, weighing escape options. If he runs, will the evil pursue him and leave these innocents alone? Or will his flight leave them completely unwarned and unprotected?

The internal war between indecision and terror leaves him paralyzed save for the trembling of his body. He shakes as if in the grip of palsy. Panic begins to claw at the crumbling edges of his control.

In the moment before the fragments of his fragile composure disintegrate into dust, his desperate eyes fall on a hand. Outstretched before him. Steady. Calm. Strong.

His eyes latch onto this hand, and follow the sweep of warm, coppery skin up the arm until he meets the owner's eyes.

_She_ is standing before him. Offering her hand.

"I'm Leah. You're safe here."

He stares at her hand, aware he is allowing time to slip. The bitter aftertaste of anger rises in the back of his throat. He is angry with her, he remembers. Still, he knows that he must conjure an appropriate response to her approach.

He searches his hazy mind for a suitable action. He should take her hand in his, as he did with the older woman when she greeted him.

Without further thought, he raises his hand and slowly slides his fingers around hers.

Heat blazes up his arm from the light pressure of their contact. Once in his brief, distant childhood, he sheltered in the forest on the edge of a clearing, watching a powerful summer storm dance above the treetops. A lightning bolt scored the sky, striking and splitting a towering evergreen not far from where he stood. The electricity surged along the ground and up his body, firing through every nerve ending until it reached his brain. The pulse knocked him out cold.

The blaze of her fingers feels like that nearly forgotten moment of vulnerability and humanity. Except now the electricity and heat do not flow to his brain. Instead, they throb in his groin. Suddenly, he is painfully engorged.

In his mind, he's already taken her. He sees himself stripping her naked, right here in her mother's home. Revels in the ecstasy of burying himself inside her. Hears her moans scurry into screams of pleasure as he drives into her, claiming her.

The sound of his own voice breaks his fantasy. "Leah," he breathes.

He is horrified. Mortified. In a century and a half, he has never reacted this way to a human woman. Anger rises again, like a serpent, hissing loudly enough to drown out his embarrassment.

She insulted him. Humiliated him. Struck at him without provocation or warning when he was at his weakest.

How _dare_ she make him desire her? His fury blunts the edge of his lust.

"I remember you."

SSW/SSW/SSW

"_**What are you doing out here?"**_

Silently, he begs her to go away.

_Leave me. Leave me. Leave me._

The plea reverberates through his mind. He would be humiliated to be seen thus by anyone. But having _her_ witness his pathetic weakness is more than he can bear.

He has avoided her for days—no easy task when he is confined to the house she inhabits. He is certain she intends to drive him mad. Though he turns her aside every time she approaches, still she seeks him out. Her dark eyes are relentless. Each time he thinks he has escaped her notice for a few moments, she ensnares him with those cursed eyes.

Worse than her eyes, worse than her pursuit, is her inexplicable arousal. He already finds her scent intoxicating; it reminds him of a rare, exotic flower he encountered in the rainforest more than a hundred years ago. Yet within minutes of his arrival in her home, her scent changed, adding a layer it took him a full day to identify: lust.

She _wants_ him, and he has no idea why.

Her desire fuels his. It is so maddening that he can bear no more than a few moments in her presence before his arousal becomes painful and obvious. He must either leave the room or take her. So each time, he leaves. And each time she pursues.

Now she has followed him here, to this beach, where he came to be alone with his thoughts. Where he came to examine more closely the kernel of a solution that has occurred to him.

"Getting away from _you_."

His own words make him frantic. Bad enough that he hungers for her, cravenly and irrationally. But now the goodness and innocence of these shape-shifters, the kindness of their human mother, have made him _care_.

Now he knows he _must_ leave. Every hour he hides in her home puts those in it at risk. He has come to realize these shape-shifters and their human mother are every bit as good and innocent as the doctor's coven. He is resolved that he _will_ not be the source of corruption and death in their home.

"I have to get away before _he_ follows me here and kills you all."

She touches him. The electrical charge of that contact spears through his body, lancing straight to his shaft. The crippling ache surges afresh. The conflict between the disarray in his mind and the intensely focused compulsion of his body floods his eyes with tears of frustration.

"Look at me," she commands. He obeys, as naturally as if he has been following the direction of her implacable voice all his long, weary years.

"Your leaving wouldn't stop him from coming here. He knows about Renesmee now, and he wants you both. We can't undo that. We can only stand together and fight him when he does come."

He expected her to agree with him and tell him to go. He would have understood anger that he disobeyed and left the house without an escort. Even disgust would have made sense if she noticed his obvious arousal. But he did not anticipate this … commitment.

She disarms him at every turn.

Her patient ferocity opens some valve in his brain. The thoughts that have swirled there for the past week begin to drain out through his unwilling mouth.

He exposes to her his envy of the peace and perfection the Cullens have created. His feeble attempts to become something other than the monster he was born to be. His shame that he fed on generations of humans, without necessity or remorse. The humiliation and anguish of knowing his choices left him too weak to save Huilen or even himself.

He has never revealed so much of his soul before, not even to the only mother he'd ever known.

He does not want to look at her, certain that when he does he will see in her fathomless eyes—at last—the revulsion and rejection he so richly deserves. He clings to that certainty; it is his only hope that she will do what he is about to ask. For he has thought of a solution, a way to protect these beings he has come to value more than he cares for his own worthless existence.

He steels himself and meets her eyes.

"If I am dead, he will have no reason to come here. The Cullens, Seth, Sue … _you_ … will all be safe. Help me, Leah. Help me make everyone safe."

Her fury is immediate, all-encompassing and incomprehensible.

The lips that he has yearned to taste for days twist into a grimace that is ugly and intimidating. The delectable body he has dreamed of stripping naked and claiming vibrates with barely restrained rage. He gapes at her, astounded by the force of her wrath.

Truly, the woman must suffer from some mental disorder.

She is shouting at him _again_. Shouting accusations he can scarcely follow. Her voice has reached an astonishing volume.

"I take my apology back. You _are_ a coward. A lousy, fucking, selfish _coward_ …"

Too far. She's gone too far. Whipped him across a line he never dreamed existed until he met her. That word! That word _again_. From _her_.

It is the spark to the towering pile of tinder beneath his anger.

His body moves without his conscious direction. He has no explanation for how his hands have found their way to her arms, how his body has come to be pressed against hers. How his mouth has crushed down on hers.

He thought he knew the power she held over his body. Thought that she had already made him feel the most intense wanting of his long life.

He knew nothing.

Lust hammers his body, driving him to actions he has never taken before. He is devouring her with his mouth. He cannot be gentle. He cannot go slowly. He is driven by the need to consume, to possess. He knows his brutal grip must be hurting her, but he cannot loosen his embrace.

She molds her body to his, her fingers in his hair. Her tongue tangles with his, and she moans into his mouth. It drives him wild. His left hand descends below her waist and presses her forward against his straining cock. The friction of her warm skin against his swollen flesh is more sensual than anything he has experienced in the most intimate, yet cold embrace of the many female vampires he's bedded.

He _needs_ to be inside her, needs to feel that scorching heat surrounding his engorged shaft. Needs to pour his pain and terror into her warm, welcoming body.

She tears her mouth from his and turns her face away. He senses her withdrawal, feels this intense moment of passionate connection slipping away. He cannot release her so easily, and his lips rove down her jaw.

He licks and sucks greedily at her throat, and a fragment of his mind marvels at his lack of blood lust. His venom glands lay dormant, and her blood does not call to him. But then, she has never smelled like food to him. Strength and power, sex and sustenance, but definitely _not_ food.

His hands are burrowing beneath her ugly clothes. Suddenly, he hates the filthy mannish garments. He wants to rip them from her succulent body. His fingers tingle from the heat of her skin, his hands throb with the need to pull her even closer.

And then she is gone, torn from his grasp, stumbling backward away from him in the sand. His mind flails futilely to comprehend this development. The absence of her deliciously warm skin feels like falling into an icy mountain stream.

He gasps raggedly, still gripped by mind-numbing hunger. He reaches to draw her back into his arms, but she takes another step back.

"We need to stop."

He has trouble understanding the strange accents of these people, human and vampire, under the best conditions. The tremor of her voice and the roaring in his ears make it nearly impossible for him to comprehend her words.

When their meaning finally surfaces, he feels anger resurge, suborning the lust. "Why? You _want_ me. I have smelled it on you all week. And _I_ want _you_. If we are going to die soon anyway, why deny ourselves what we both desire?"

She steps back again, her voice gaining in strength with every inch and moment of distance between them. "We are _not_ going to die."

Her certainty is so powerful, so imposing, that his fragmented mind joyfully leaps toward belief.

She is so much stronger than he. Her personality is stronger, her presence more powerful than any creature he has ever encountered, perhaps even his sire. Her confidence in their survival is a soothing balm on the ragged wounds in his psyche. His surrender to her conviction births a relief so intense that his knees weaken and will alone keeps him from collapsing to the sand.

She is still speaking in that calm, assured tone, and he struggles to absorb her words.

"I'm not saying no. I'm just saying not now. Not yet. But 'not yet' is going to become 'not on your life' if you ever bring up the idea of suicide again. Got it?"

Again, she unmans him.

He expected her to exile him from her presence forever, or at the very least forbid him to ever touch her again. Instead she has made him a promise. Her pledge to give him her body floods him with hope so exquisite it is beyond words. It is a promise of a shared future. It is permission to _want_ her.

The power of speech is a distant dream for him in this moment, but he is able to nod his agreement.

When she turns and strides off into the night, he feels a pull centered below his breast bone, as if the cable from his first dark fantasy of her really exists. He is powerless against its draw, and he follows her back toward the distant lights of the town.

Toward home.

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><p><strong><em>End Note: <em>**_Hope you enjoyed this foray into the mind of everyone's favorite sexy half-vampire. I'll be posting Chapter 18 late next week, and will move this outtake to its own spot on at that time. Let me know if you want to see more of this kind of outtake and keep reviewing. I'll do another when we hit 350 reviews!_


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N**: __Season of the She Wolf has passed 350 reviews! Thanks to everyone who's been faithfully following Leah and her vamp-boy__. As promised, this outtake is my way of saying thanks to all those who review. Your comments are the only way I know that someone is enjoying the story, and that's really the whole point of writing it!_

****_As always, my lovely betas MunkeeRajah and Evelyn worked their magic on this piece, even though they're both busier this week than a one-legged man in a butt-kicking contest. A special shout-out to readers Kycee and Eliza D, who both wanted to know what was going on in Nahuel's head with the whole marriage proposal situation. I'd already started writing this, but it's great to know I'm not the only one who wanted to peek into his pretty vampire head at that precise moment._

_As we all know, Stephenie Meyer owns Twilight. If I owned it, I'd be wildly wealthy and I'd give you all cars. Really, I would!_

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><p><strong>The Big Question<strong>

The other family members are occupied elsewhere when he approaches her. She is alone, working in the kitchen. He knows this is her favorite room and, he thinks, it is a comfortable location for what could become an uncomfortable conversation.

Her back is to him as she works. Her small, graceful hands are busy with something in the sink when he softly calls her name.

She jumps and whirls to face him with her hand over her chest. Her eyes are wide, and he can hear her heart race.

"Oh! Nahuel! I didn't hear you come in."

He has surprised her. Frightened her. He did not mean to.

Frustrated, he realizes that if she is already on edge, the conversation he wishes to have could be even more awkward and difficult.

She is startled because he has moved too silently again. It is difficult to remember that humans make noise when they walk. He should have taken more care to move as a human would. The last thing he wants is to remind her of the part of his nature that repels her.

She relaxes against the counter. Her heart rate slows. She smiles at him. Warmth kindles in his chest, and he pauses to savor the feeling.

"Did you need something?"

He realizes he has been silent for too long. Again, he is missing the cues that a real human would know. Were he human, he would not have to consider before responding.

He shakes his head, irritated with himself, and finally finds his voice.

"No."

She frowns, uncertain. He tries again.

"Yes. I need your help."

She smiles again. "Of course. What can I do for you?"

Since coming here, he has experienced a greater variety of emotions—and felt them with a greater intensity—than he can recall in the century and a half that have gone before. Sometimes, they overpower him and he must pause to reorganize his thoughts to allow room for the new feeling.

He needs such a moment now. Gratitude at her easy acquiescence temporarily overwhelms him.

This time, she waits patiently, watching him collect himself. When he is finally able, he speaks.

"I require help asking a question."

She arches her eyebrows. He recognizes the expression as one intended to convey both inquisitiveness and encouragement. She gestures with one hand toward the nearby table and chairs.

"Why don't we sit?"

A glance at the old table and new chairs sparks a momentary stab of guilt. He is reminded of the damage he has already caused in this woman's home. In her life. In the lives of those she loves. Resolute that he will cause no further harm, he does as she suggests, and takes a seat across from her.

"So, what is this question and how can I help you with it?"

He is not surprised at her willingness to pledge her aid without knowing his requirements; she is a generous woman. He is, however, unsure how to proceed. He does not wish to distress her. Yet he fears his request will cause her worry. Or, worse, anger.

He folds his hands on the table and hesitates, rethinking his planned speech. Without speaking, she places her hand atop his and favors him with a kind, maternal smile. He has come to treasure her smiles. They speak to him of acceptance and patience. Though he feels he deserves neither act of grace, he is, nonetheless, grateful to receive them.

"It is not a new question," he begins carefully. "I have asked it already, but in a manner that did not secure the answer I desired."

Her smile becomes tentative as her brows dip low over her dark eyes. "I don't understand. Have I misinterpreted something you've asked me?"

Hastily, he shakes his head. He hopes his smile reassures her that she is not the source of his difficulty.

"No. The question was for Leah, and I bungled it badly." He drops his eyes. Withdrawing his hands from beneath hers, he begins to pick at his nail. It is a nervous and childish habit. But it is also an intensely human one, so he permits himself this comfort.

"In fact, my performance was so poor that I am amazed she has continued to speak with me at all."

She chuckles. "Oh, I doubt there's much you could do that would make my daughter stop talking to you. What makes you think there's a problem? You both seem so happy."

He says nothing, only continues to tear at his cuticle. His silence makes her uncertain. She bites her lower lip, worrying the pink flesh between her straight, white teeth.

"Maybe you should just tell me what you said that you think has Leah upset."

She is unaware that their friendship may well pivot on this moment. He is certain she will either embrace him and help him … or she will repudiate him finally and forever. Drawing a trembling breath, he plunges forward.

"I told her I want to marry her."

Her mouth and eyes form three perfect ovals of astonishment.

"You .…" She swallows, and he can hear the dryness in her throat. Quickly, he rises, procures a glass from the cabinet and fills it with tap water. He places the glass before her, and she gulps the water down.

"Thanks." She sets the glass on the table in front of her. Her fingers grip the tumbler too tightly, and he fears she may break it and cause herself harm. Gently, he removes it from her grasp.

She finds her voice. "You want to ask Leah to marry you?"

"No," he corrects. "I have already done so. I wish to ask again."

Confusion clouds her rich, dark eyes. "I don't understand. You already proposed to her? What did she say?"

Hurt stabs him at the memories her question evokes. "She refused me."

"She said no?" Her voice is high and tight with disbelief.

"She did not say yes. That is the same as no, is it not?"

"Not necessarily."

She clasps her hands tightly in front of her. He recognizes that this is a habit that indicates she is experiencing anxiety. With the fingers of her right hand, she repeatedly rotates the ring on her left. It is new, and he recalls it appeared there shortly after the night she and Charlie announced their engagement.

He resumes his seat at the table.

"What exactly did she say? And why do you think she'll change her mind if you ask again?"

He has pondered this at length. "My proposal lacked finesse and … romance. I did not 'sweep her off her feet.' If I improve my proposal, perhaps she will reconsider."

She leaves off twisting her ring, reaches across the table and takes his hands in her own.

"Nahuel, it's very sweet that you want to propose to her again. But I'm not sure you're right about why she didn't say yes the first time. Leah's not the kind of girl to get hung up on appearances and presentation. Do you think there might be some other reason why she didn't accept?"

While she speaks, he drops his eyes to study their joined hands. She is only giving voice to thoughts he has already considered and set aside. He has turned these thoughts away because they are too painful, too frightening.

If it was not his delivery that was lacking … perhaps it was he, himself. And though he desperately wants to be a better being, wants nothing more than to be worthy of his lover's respect, admiration and commitment, he fears he cannot change his basic nature.

He fears he will always be less.

Perhaps his beloved has already realized this, and that is why she has not agreed to marry him.

Slowly, he raises his eyes to find compassion and empathy radiating from hers.

"What else can I do?" His voice is so weak, so pathetic to his own ears that he is surprised she even hears him. She is an excellent, empathetic listener, and he is profoundly grateful for her friendship. He has faith in her guidance, so he waits patiently while she visibly considers her next words.

She draws in a long breath and gives his hands a gentle squeeze. "Let's start from the beginning. What did you say? Tell me exactly how you proposed."

So he does, omitting no detail. She flinches when he explains that Leah's climax delayed her reply to his proposal.

He pauses. Her eyes are pinched and pained, her lips pressed into a tight grimace.

"Are you unwell? Shall I get you more water?"

She releases his hands and wipes her palm across her forehead. "No, no. I'm okay. I did ask, didn't I?" She appears to be having difficulty meeting his eyes. "Go on. What did Leah say when she … came to?"

"She asked why I would want to marry her."

She laughs, but it is not a happy sound. It is harsh and barking. "Yes, that sounds like my daughter. And what did you say?"

He drops his eyes, ashamed now of his reaction then. "I was not patient. I became angry. I felt hurt. I told her that humans marry when they are in love, as do mated vampires. I asked her why she would question my desire to marry her."

She is gnawing on her lower lip and he is certain she will draw blood soon. He is confident of his control, now, in the presence of human blood, but he would rather she not injure herself. She has resumed twisting her ring.

"So you didn't really answer her question."

He is nonplussed. "I thought that I did."

She shakes her head firmly, authority and disapproval darkening her tone. "No. You didn't. Why didn't you? Did you not know what to say?"

He considers. "Perhaps I did not."

"You'll need to do better than that if you intend to ask again."

He raises his torn nail to his lips and begins to chew on the edge of it. "I still do not know what I should have said. What I _should_ say."

"Tell me. Tell me what you would say if you could go back and change things."

He closes his eyes against her demand and allows his vampire-vivid memories to transport him back to that night. The tang of the sea air, the hammering of the waves upon the shore, the slick slide of her scorching skin against his. Her hands, her mouth, her body surrounding him, consuming him, claiming him.

"I would tell her that I love her with all that is in me."

"That's a good start," she encourages.

"I would tell her that if I had been human enough to have any dreams in the first one hundred and fifty years of my existence, that she would be the fruition of every one of them. That I knew my whole life I lacked something, but I had no idea until I met her that I was looking for _her_, longing for _her_."

He opens his eyes to find her staring at him intently, mesmerized by his words.

"I would tell her that I was not human until she made me so. That I had no soul until she shared hers with me. I would tell her I can never repay the debt I owe her for saving me in every imaginable way, and I would beg her to allow me to spend eternity trying."

She holds her breath to see if he will continue. When she realizes he is done, she exhales softly. "Oh, sweetheart. She needs to hear you say all of that."

He blinks, confused. "She already knows these things."

She shakes her head. "Nahuel, every woman wants to hear her man say he loves her, especially when he's asking her to marry him. And Leah's deeply insecure when it comes to you. She needs you to tell her how you feel about her. Repeatedly."

He is stunned. Nothing he perceives in his beloved matches her mother's belief that Leah is insecure. She is the strongest, most powerful, most confident individual he has ever known. Why would she doubt herself? She is beautiful, desirable, intelligent and compassionate. Why would she doubt his complete and eternal devotion?

He must challenge this assertion. "It does not seem possible that she would be unaware of the depth of my emotions."

Her lovely features, so like Leah's, descend into a disapproving frown. "As far as I know, there's only one mind-reader around here. And I don't think Leah would ask Edward to tell her what you're thinking. So if you don't tell her, she won't know what's on your mind any better than you can guess what's on hers."

She grips his hands tighter. "Nahuel, if you want a relationship with Leah, you are going to have to communicate with her. And I warn you that you are _always_ going to have to be the one to speak your heart first, because she won't do it."

He mentally reviews each watershed moment he has shared with Leah. He was the first to act upon their mutual attraction. The first to shift their interaction from lust to affection. The first to declare his love. He has thought she was in control of their relationship thus far. Now he realizes that each time they have moved forward, it was he who took the initial step and she who followed.

He rocks back in his chair, automatically withdrawing his hands from hers. He is thunderstruck.

It is possible, he now realizes, that his beloved is as unsure of herself as her mother believes her to be. And if she is so uncertain, then it is his fault, for he has not given her enough reason to feel secure in his love. He must tell her. He must make her understand.

He raises his eyes and leans forward eagerly.

"What must I do? Tell me what I must say!"

Her happy smile splits the concerned frown. Her merry laugh sings with affection for his enthusiasm.

"Tell her what you just told me, about your dreams and soul. That should do it!"

He shakes his head, serious again. "No. This is too important to rely upon my own bumbling words. You must advise me in what to say and how to say it."

Inspiration strikes. "What did Charlie say?"

Her smile does not waver, but her eyebrows rise questioningly. "Pardon?"

He clarifies: "When he proposed to you, what did Charlie say to convince you to agree?"

She laughs again, shyly this time. "Well, I didn't need much convincing. Charlie kept it simple. He had a ring, of course." She lifts her left hand and wiggles her fingers, drawing his attention to the glittering stone on her fourth finger. "Neither one of us felt the need for a big production. We'd both been through it before."

Her words remind him that Leah, too, has more experience in these matters than he. A ball of cold anger forms in his stomach and rolls slowly up his throat. He grits his teeth and forces his words out around his revulsion.

"When … _he_ …" he cannot bring himself to voice the name, "… proposed to Leah, what did _he_ say and do?"

He watches her search for understanding. She requires only a few seconds to achieve it.

"Sam?" The name sends another wave of dark, bitter hate through his veins. Unable to manage words, he only nods.

"Well, he took her to a nice restaurant in Seattle. I think she said he hid the ring in a champagne flute, if I remember correctly. And he went down on one knee. Promised to love her forever. She was so very happy."

She pauses and shakes her head with a sad smile.

"Harry and I always regretted that Sam didn't go the traditional route and ask for our blessing before he proposed. I think if he had, Harry might have warned him against doing it just then. You see, he knew there was a chance Sam would be the first to start phasing."

Her voice clogs with emotion. "Maybe if he had waited, maybe if they hadn't been engaged, Leah wouldn't have taken it so hard when Sam imprinted on Emily."

He has detested the wolf chief from the first moment he learned of the mutt's history with Leah. Now, hearing how the cur made promises he was not free to keep, his loathing achieves epic proportions. He vows to himself that he will make the dog pay one day for how he treated Leah.

And he is determined to eclipse forever the werewolf's proposal with the passion and promise of his own.

"Flowers, then. And a ring. And I will speak my heart." He recaptures her hands. "Will you give us your blessing? You and Charlie?"

Her chocolate eyes fill with tears, and for a moment he is horrified that he has made her cry. She sees his chagrin and laughs at herself. "No, no! I'm crying because I'm happy."

Relief wells in his heart. "Then you do approve?" Until this moment, he was unsure.

"Of course! Leah has been so bitter and broken and just … unhappy … for so long. You've changed all that, Nahuel. You are so good for her. I hope you know that."

His own eyes sting with emotion. He wishes he could tell her that he knows he can never be good enough to deserve the treasure fate has handed him. That, if Leah permits, he will gladly spend eternity trying to be worthy of her. But he does not trust his voice to speak without breaking, so he merely nods.

She pats his hands affectionately. "Okay, I'm guessing you want to do this sooner, rather than later?"

"Yes, please."

"Well, Charlie and I are taking her to Port Angeles the day after tomorrow. She needs to pick up her dress for Jake's wedding. We could get everything set up so that you could surprise her when we come home."

He cannot control the smile that erupts on his face, nor the impatient bouncing of his legs under the table. "Yes! A surprise! That is an excellent idea."

He feels as giddy as a child swinging on a rope. The arc of his swing carries him high into the air, where he is gilded by sunlight and happiness and hope.

She toes him under the table, and laughs kindly at his energy. "I'll take care of getting flowers delivered. What are you going to do for a ring?"

The rope of his ebullience snaps. He plummets back to the cold, dark ground.

"I have no ring."

And no way of getting one, either. No idea where to secure one. No money with which to purchase one even if he knew where to do so. Surely something so meaningful and special cannot be obtained in two days. How long will it take to gather the currency he will need to buy one?

He is staggered by the depth of his stupidity. Disappointed beyond endurance. He will have to change his plans.

"I will have to wait to ask again." He struggles to keep his desolation out of his voice.

She purses her lips and studies him for a moment. "That may not be necessary. If you're willing, I may have a solution."

Hope resurges. "Yes! Anything!"

She rises quietly and disappears down the hallway to her bedroom. He hears a drawer open and then close. After a few moments, she returns with a small black box cradled in her hand. She reclaims her seat and places the box on the table in front of him. When he makes no move to touch it, she motions for him to pick it up.

Gingerly, he pinches the small box between his index finger and thumb. It is made of a soft material that shimmers with a rich sheen. He opens the box. Nestled within is a slender golden band. A clear, round stone sparkles atop the band. It is elegant, unpretentious and achingly beautiful.

Just like Leah.

He raises his eyes questioningly. She is watching him discover the ring, a slight smile playing behind the clasped hands she holds before her lips.

"That's the ring Leah's father gave me when he asked me to marry him."

He cannot control his gasp. He does not need to be told the emotional significance of this band, or how powerful a statement it is that she has offered it to him. This is more than a blessing of his desire to wed her daughter; it is a grand gesture of her acceptance of him.

This time, when the emotion pricks behind his eyes, he makes no effort to contain it.

"Oh!" She is startled and distressed by his tears. "Oh, dear! If you don't like it, it's okay. I understand. We'll think of something else. I …"

He interrupts her.

"No. I am happy, Sue. It is perfect. I have no words to adequately express my gratitude for the honor you do me by offering this. Thank you."

She returns his smile, her own eyes bright again.

"You're welcome, dear."

He stands, steps around the table, draws her to her feet and wraps her in his arms. Without hesitation, she returns his embrace and presses her cheek to his chest.

"You know, I'd like to think Leah's father watches over us. I think he'd approve, too. I think he'd be happy to see you put that ring on his daughter's finger."

He hugs her tighter. He has never given much thought to a deity, but he is willing to believe that if Leah's father shared her strength of spirit, that strength lives on.

If that is so, he hopes Harry Clearwater's spirit will watch over them all in the days ahead.


	3. Chapter 3

_**A/N: **So a few chapters ago I asked what everyone wanted to read for an outtake. The result is this - Leah and Nahuel's first time together as told from vamp-boy's point of view. You're a lascivious lot, and I love you all for asking for this! It was majorly fun to write and I hope you'll enjoy reading it, too. Since I couldn't send each and every one of you holiday greetings, please consider this outtake as my "Happy Holidays!" to you. I was going to wait until Christmas to post it, but I'm afraid I'll get caught up in holiday goings-on and not have a chance to do it, so here it is a few days early.  
><em>

_Twilight belongs to Stephenie Meyer._

* * *

><p><em>'Love is like the sea, which changes constantly, and yet is still the same.' <em>

_- Tanith Lee, 'The Silver Metal Lover'_

She steps into the room, and his heart hastens its pace to echo the compelling thrum of hers. Did the cursed thing ever beat before he met her? He is unsure. He only knows that she has commandeered control of its rhythm. Aimless for a dozen decades, now its every throb is drawn forth by the tether she has anchored in his soul.

At last, he has a name for what she has done to him, and an explanation for the compulsion that he has struggled to control and comprehend. He wants to scream at her in accusation. Wants to seize her and shake her until the truth spills from her exquisite, deceitful lips. Wants to lay her on the hard, cold floor and lose himself in the sanctuary of her warmth.

Instead, he turns three slices of bacon and strokes the eggs with the spatula.

The muscles in his abdomen spasm. Longing and lust simmer low in his stomach. He has never vomited before, but he wonders if this tight, winding pain in his gut is driving him to that humiliation. Without turning, he addresses her.

"Please sit down, Leah. Your breakfast is ready."

She moves toward the table, and each step that brings her closer to him blasts wave after wave of her heat and energy against his sensitized skin. He stifles a gasp. Suppresses a groan. The aftershock of each wave slithers down his body like an erotic caress. It is as if she has placed her mouth on his tumescent flesh. He is so hard that he wonders if he can still walk.

He slides the perfectly scrambled eggs and crisp bacon onto a plate where he has already placed four slices of toast. He carries the plate and the coffee mug—the largest he could find—to the table and sets both in front of her.

Because he does not yet trust himself to touch her gently, he sits in the chair farthest from hers. Finally, he permits himself to look at her.

His heart rate accelerates again. His throat narrows to a tightness that must be impossible for sustaining life. It has been just three days since he saw her last, and she has grown even more beautiful in that short time. His craving for her has intensified. He knows exactly why this is so.

She is lovelier, more intoxicating, and more desirable to him because now, at last, he knows that he _belongs_ to her.

She may still deny this truth to herself, but by the end of this day, she will have no doubt. His conviction allows him to retain his self-control, for now, but it is fraying rapidly. He is unsure how much longer he will be able to keep his hands off her, so he pushes the plate toward her.

"Please eat."

He is relieved that the words have not left his lips as a shout. But when she still hesitates, her hand hovering over the fork, he speaks again, more forcefully.

"Eat, Leah. You will not have another chance to do so today."

She studies him warily, and attempts a joke, but he can barely hear it over the thundering current of blood rushing past his ears to pool in his groin. "Why won't I get to eat again?"

Without thinking, he leans forward over the table, so close that her scent—lush and redolent of the rain-soaked forest as twilight descends—threatens to overwhelm his senses. He struggles to maintain control. He is so close. So close to her skin, her hair, her eyes, her lips. So close to dragging her to the floor and claiming her. But that is not what he intends for their first time.

"When you are done with your breakfast, I am going to take you to your bed, and we will not leave it again today."

With the last dwindling remnants of his sanity, he drags himself back in the chair, away from her gravitational pull.

"Perhaps not tomorrow, either."

Her darkling eyes grow round and glisten, the pupils dilating until he can almost peer into her soul. The ambrosial scent of her arousal abruptly permeates the air. She begins to eat quickly and efficiently. She seems focused and cautious, so it is surprising that she speaks at all, let alone gives voice to the most enflaming accusation.

"You left me."

She seems as shocked by her words as he feels. She gasps at her own audacity and begins to choke on her food, spraying fragments of egg from her mouth with each cough. Normally, he would be amused by her display. Or alarmed at her physical distress. But he sees neither the humor nor the risk of her plight.

Instead, he sees a crimson haze ooze across his vision. He sees her through a film of fury.

"You should have told me."

Now he is surprised by his _own_ words. This is not how he had planned to indict her. He had intended to take her to her bed and bring her to climax at least twice before confronting her duplicity. He had planned to pleasure away all her defenses and resistance so that when he finally revealed his heart, she would be too satiated to turn him away.

"What?"

She is confused.

_Confused! _His anger grows exponentially at the realization that she has no idea why he is furious with her.

He struggles for control and grips the edge of the table to keep his hands from grasping her. He does not want to touch her in anger.

"I should not have had to learn from another that you have imprinted on me. _You_ should have told me."

Her mouth drops and her eyes open impossibly wide. Her delicate nostrils flare, like a wary animal scenting the approach of a powerful predator. Her creamy, coppery skin acquires a purplish undertone just before her mouth snaps shut and her eyes narrow to glittering slits. She throws her fork down and it clatters across the plate. Food spills on the floor. She snarls at him as if he were an ill-behaved animal.

"When was I supposed to tell you? You disappeared for three fucking days. Right _after_ you said you would never leave me, by the way."

He has grown so accustomed to her over-use of profanity that he rarely even notices it anymore. Yet everything she says or does at this moment only serves to enrage him more. The heat of her anger is burning away what little control he has on his own emotions. She is rapidly approaching a line, and he does not know what will happen to them when she crosses it.

He has no doubt that she _will_ cross it. She always does.

She stands, leans forward, braces her hands on the table, and _shouts_ in his face.

"You think you should get to fuck me just because you're my imprint?"

And there it is: his boiling point.

How dare she demean his passion, his adoration, his all-consuming _need_ for her as nothing more than a biological urge?

The crimson haze over his vision turns momentarily black before her face resolves again out of the darkness. Suddenly the room is too bright, the sights, scents and sounds filling it too overwhelming to be borne a moment longer. He must move. He must break something before his rage devours them both.

He surges to his feet and flips the table out of his way. The words he had meant to lay at her feet like a gift in a moment of tenderness pour out of his mouth now, ugly and coarse and disturbingly _loud_.

"Yes, I want to fuck you! I want to fuck you because I am in love with you!"

She reacts as if he has slapped her. Her face recoils and drains of color. She steps backward, slips on spilled food and crashes limply to the floor. She gapes at him, momentarily wordless, but he _knows_ her. He knows she will try to refute his declaration. She will try to tell him that he does not feel what he knows he feels. The knowledge stokes his wrath to white-hot.

For once, she is actually _silent,_ and he follows her to the floor, pressing the advantage afforded him by her surprise and his fury.

"I am in love with you. You are mine. _Mine! _And I am yours."

He sits on her thighs, imprisoning her legs. The feel of her lithe, muscled body beneath his draws all his focus to the unbearable hardness between his legs. He is done waiting. Done being patient and considerate. He will take what he wants—what they _both_ want—right here, right now.

Roughly, he begins unbuttoning her shirt. The appalling tremors in his fingers make the task difficult.

"You had no right to keep this from me," he snarls. "I thought I was losing my mind. I thought I was becoming like my sire, desiring a human woman to the point of insanity."

His fingers are shaking so badly now that he can no longer manage the damnable buttons. Her hands cover his as if to stop him, but he brushes her touch away. Seizing both sides of her shirt, he yanks on the garment and the buttons separate from the fabric.

With a frantic wrench, he breaks the clasp of her bra. Why would she wear such a device? Her breasts are magnificent. Mouth-watering. Alone in the shower, he has gratified himself countless times with excruciatingly detailed fantasies centered around her breasts. Now, overwhelmed by the need to be inside her, he cannot spare them a second glance and his hands move immediately to her pants.

He unzips them and begins dragging the denim and the cotton undergarment beneath it down her body. He exposes her hipbones and a swath of soft, flat stomach. It has been too long since he last savored the sight of her breathtaking body. He cannot remove her clothing quickly enough, but the cursed pants snag at the point where her delectable bottom meets the floor. He growls his frustration, and without thinking, does what he has grown accustomed to doing in the past month whenever he is experiencing difficulty. He asks for her help.

Except this time it is voiced as a demand.

She does not respond, nor does she do what he has asked. Instead, moving so quickly he cannot react, she drives her hands into the center of his chest and pushes him off her legs. He topples backward to the floor. Surprise and confusion leave him speechless.

She rises and he realizes she is rejecting him, just as he feared she would. That fear kept him away from her for three days—the three longest, loneliest, most miserable days of his entire desolate existence. Only his own wretchedness and the hope he borrowed from Jacob carried him here this morning.

Now he sees his hopes were false, and they have come to this: She stands over him, her clothing torn and disheveled, her exquisite breasts exposed and heaving. She is the most beautiful creature he has ever seen. And she is _not_ his.

Despair engulfs him.

He belongs to her. He always will. But _she_ will never be _his_.

He cannot decipher her expression. Perhaps she is contemplating rending his limbs from his body for his rough handling of her and his presumptiveness. Ending him now would be a kindness. He studies her expectantly.

Holding his bewildered gaze, she shrugs out of the remnants of her shirt and bra. She slips her hands into her pants, sensually sliding her palms down over either hip bone. She strokes the jeans to the floor and steps out of them. She is gloriously nude before him.

His heart stills.

His breathing falters.

Time stops.

Her strong hand, so much smaller than his, reaches toward him palm up. He stares at it, unable to grasp the meaning of its presence before him. His eyes travel up her slender, muscled arm until they reach her beautiful face. She is smiling. Her voice is soft and hypnotic.

"Are you coming?"

Her words draw his body off the floor and his mouth onto hers as a star gathers in a comet. He does not know where to place his hands first. He needs to touch her, taste her, everywhere. She saturates his senses. He is graceless and greedy, and stumbles her backward toward her bedroom.

He had wanted to fill their first time together with sweet whispers, tender promises and praises of her perfection. Instead, he can barely remember to breathe. He vaguely registers that they are making little progress down the interminable hallway. But desire consumes his reason. He cannot think of a solution to their stalled motion. He simply cannot think at all, let alone manage the complex coordination of two sets of legs and hands.

Once again, she rescues him. Her nimble fingers plunge into his hair, twist and pull his mouth from hers. "Pick me up," she commands.

Of course. This, he can manage. He lifts her, drawing her long legs around his waist. The heat of her naked flesh against his supporting hands nearly unmans him. He clutches her to him and hastens into her bedroom. He stumbles short of the bed and trips, landing them both on the mattress through luck more than design. The fall positions his face directly above her full, flawless breasts. It is more than an opportunity: it is an offering from fate.

She has enjoyed his attentions to her breasts in the past. Now, he worships them with his fingers, his lips, his tongue. When he draws her nipple into his mouth, she cries out. The scent of her arousal changes and he shudders, knowing that if he delves between her thighs now she will be wet and slick, blazingly hot. He wants to taste and savor that nectar, but before he can move she is dragging his shirt over his head and shoulders.

As soon as the cool air touches his skin he knows he must feel the slide of hers against it, and he lowers himself atop her. He means to kiss her senseless before working his way down toward the source of that incredible aroma. But again she derails his intentions. She smoothes her hands down his back and plunges her fingers below his waistband. She cups and fondles his flesh and the erotic newness of the sensation drives him wild.

She has never touched him so boldly before. He no longer doubts that she wants him as madly as he desires her.

Lust clouds his senses and when he resurfaces, his naked erection is poised at the entrance to her moist heat. He is beyond restraint. Since he cannot slow his headlong plunge, he offers an apology instead, his head dropping to her shoulder. "I am sorry, ñi piuque. I cannot wait."

Her answer is to grip him harder and urge him forward. It is more than permission. It is benediction.

With a single powerful stroke, he drives deep into her body.

He is half-vampire, so his mind does not shut down completely. But it is a very near thing.

She is slick and tight, sheathing him in silken paradise, each ridge and fold within her body stroking and squeezing his length perfectly. And the _heat_ of her—it is beyond anything he could have imagined.

He stifles a sob at the fleeting memory of decades wasted plowing the icy depths of more female vampires than he cares to recall. He pushes the thought away. He did not know this feeling existed, did not know _she_ existed. If he had, he would have hunted the ends of the earth to find her. He would have stood sentry on her parents' doorstep waiting for her to be born. He will not wallow in regret over his ignorance. He only cares that he is here, now, within her divine warmth.

He is home.

He tries to call forth his ability to be vampire-still, for he teeters on the edge of release. He does not want this first time to end so quickly. Does not want to plunge into ecstasy alone. He wants her with him when he falls—this first time and every time to come. He wants her with him, always.

But she is squirming beneath him and he realizes she is experiencing some discomfort. He is large, and she is extremely tight. Bringing her to climax will require time and consideration on his part. He is struggling to give her that time, holding perfectly still save for the vibrations caused by his ragged gasps.

Her feet climb up the outside of his thighs. Her toes curl and clench at his hip bones. Her knees nudge beneath his armpits. She is opening her body even wider, and his sex sinks impossibly further into her blazing depths. She is making it monumentally difficult to be considerate.

He groans, a strangled, tortured sound. He pants against her throat and pleads with her to remain still. "If you move now, I will be done."

She rotates her hips, swirling around and gripping his length. Her fire is going to consume him, burn him to ash. Her voice is torturous temptation. "Let go, baby. Just let go."

The urge to ram into her, to mate with her, is flogging away what little remains of his self-control. Still, he struggles to restrain himself. He attempts to restrain _her_, grasping her hips punishingly to force her into stillness. He can barely control his voice, and it is so ragged he is not confident she can even understand him.

"Not without you."

Her hands stroke across his waist, up his quivering back to his shoulder blades. The knuckles of her balled fists burrow into his muscles. Her heels ride his lower back, pushing him even deeper. He feels her straining beneath him, and her tension passes through the point where his flesh spears into hers and sweeps through his body. He senses frustration and annoyance welling within her.

"Oh my God, Nahuel, if you want me to come, you have to move—"

The mere suggestion of feeling her climax while he is buried inside her wrests a reflexive reaction from his traitorous body. Before his mind can register the movement of his own hips, he's withdrawn a fraction of his length from her. Even this minute loss of her heat slaps his cock coldly and he slams back into her, frantic to recapture the searing pleasure of her possession.

She grunts in delight and he freezes again, feeling the threatening pressure of his impending orgasm.

_No, no, no, no, no. Not without her!_

His stillness wrings a whimper of frustration from her kiss-swollen lips. She sinks her nails into his back. "Please, baby. Please!"

The last shreds of his self-control shiver away at the sound of her pleading. He can refuse her nothing.

He slips his arms beneath her back, gripping her shoulders from behind, pulling her down to meet each thrust. At first, his movements are frenzied, and disgracefully without rhythm or finesse. His strokes are short and hard. The warm friction is glorious, but he cannot bear even a momentary loss of her heat.

He wants to taste every inch of her, but settles for licking, sucking and kissing wherever he can reach: her clavicle, her graceful throat, the bow of her jaw. She grips his hair and urges his mouth toward her own. As their lips entwine and their breaths mingle, an unexpected, amazing peace overtakes him.

The past month has wrought more change in his life than any of the hundreds he lived through before it. His emotions have been as mercurial as the inexplicable new world he finds himself inhabiting. Meeting her, fearing her, wanting her, hating her for making him want her, wanting her more intensely, realizing that she is a part of him—all this has altered him irrevocably.

Each small sea change has been another drop in the burgeoning swell of his transformation. As her skin slides against his, as she claims his breath and his body for her own, calm acceptance settles over him.

They are together.

He belongs to her.

He loves her.

He is whole.

Her body flexes beneath him and he pushes up on his forearms so that he may watch her face and savor her pleasure. She releases his lips and her eyes open wide, locking on his. Her movements and moans indicate she is approaching her climax. He wants this for her, wants her to lose herself in mindless bliss, wants her to know that he worships every inch of her body and the entirety of her soul.

She is gasping and shivering beneath him, her inner walls clenching tightly around his invading flesh. As her tremors intensify, her back arches off the bed, forcing her breasts more tightly against him. In the second before her orgasm, he sees a flicker of fear in her eyes.

Then it is gone, and she flies apart, crying out in ecstasy.

Entranced, he watches her eyes lose focus and her breath catch. Deep within her body, her inner walls tighten and spasm around his shaft almost painfully, and it is the most delicious, delirious discomfort he has ever experienced.

Now he is beyond thought. He gladly surrenders control to the demands her body is making on his. He holds on just long enough to see her gaze refocus on his face, and to register the total transformation shining through her bottomless, glistening eyes.

He drives into her, forcing their bodies higher on the bed. Once. Twice. A third thrust, and the fire that has been building low in his abdomen finally erupts, ripping through his body and escaping in a roar. He spills himself deep inside her heat. Decades of loneliness and inadequacy, weeks of fear and wanting, wash out of his body, and she takes it all—his love for her, and everything he loathes in himself. And she gives him back peace, acceptance, release.

It is the most transcendent experience of his long life.

He collapses on top of her, still hard and lodged within her. For a time—a few moments or several minutes, he is not sure—he knows nothing save the tender stroking of her fingers through his hair and the satiny feel of her flawless skin beneath his own hand. Even now, he cannot stop touching her.

She captures the fingers that he has been lazily running over her collar bone and breasts, and brings his hand to her mouth. She kisses his fingers one by one, and then tenderly holds them to her lips.

She has not yet verbalized her feelings for him. But this simple gesture, even more than the incredible passion that has just passed between them, speaks clearly what her voice has not yet said.

His love is returned.

He sighs in contentment.

"Thank you, ñi piuque."


End file.
